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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Chap. Copyright No.. 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




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SEEN ^ UNSEEN 

or, 

Monologues of a Homeless Snail: 

by 

Yone NoguchL 




SAN FRANCISCO. 
Gelett Burgess 6? Porter Garnett 
1897 






A. 



Copyright, 1896 
BY Gelett Burgess 
& Porter Garnett 



AH, WHO WILL CARE FOR MY POETRY ? 
I DO NOT KNOW YET BUT I DARE 
TO HOPE THAT THERE MAY BE SOME 
UNKNOWN FRIENDS AND TO THEM I 
LOVINGLY DEDICATE THESE MY SONGS. 



CONTENTS 





INTRODUCTION. 




PROLOGUE. 


I. 


/ come hack to me. 


II. 


Where would I go ? 


III. 


The brave upright Rains. 


IV. 


matchless Mistress Moon ! 


V. 


Is this World the solid Being ^ 


VI. 


Sabre- cornered Winds blow 1 


VII. 


Alone. 


VIII. 


Ah., it was Rain ! 


IX. 


To an unknown Poet. 


X. 


Alas., Nothing ! 


XI. 


Dreamy Peace dwelt with me. 


XII. 


On the midnight Garden. 


XIII. 


Drankest thou snowy Dews. 


XIV. 


Sliding through the Window, 


XV. 


What about my Songs ? 





CONTENTS 


XVI. 


At Night. 


XVII. 


I recall my Dream. 


XVIII. 


Ah., 7ny Banana Tree ! 


XIX. 


Like a Paper Lantern. 


XX. 


Where is the Poet ? 


XXI. 


The invisible Night. 


XXII. 


My Poetry. 


XXIII. 


Destiny arrives. 


XXIV. 


The Garden of Truth. 


XXV. 


Alone in the Canyon. 


XXVI. 


Seas of Reverie. 


XXVII. 


I delight in the Shadow. 


XXVIII. 


The Bough- Wind blows f 


XXIX. 


Am I lonesome ? 


XXX. 


My lonely Soul. 


XXXI. 


Into the Place. 


XXXII. 


Seas of Loneliness. 


XXXIII. 


Changes after Changing. 


XXXIV. 


Childish Play. 


XXXV. 


The Ripples know. 


XXXVI. 


Hush^ — whose Sobs f 


XXXVII. 


I am a Shadow. 


XXXVIII. 


How near to Fairyland! 


XXXIX. 


Ah., who says so ? 


XL. 


What says the Silence? 





CONTENTS 


XLI. 


The Desert of ^ No Morel 


XLII. 


A Night in 'June. 


XLIII. 


Eternal Death. 


XLIV. 


Differences. 


XLV. 


The Shadow of the Trees ^ 


XLVI. 


Hiding in the Mist. 


XLVII. 


The Night-Lyre echoes. 


XLVIII. 


The Summer's lean Face. 


XLIX. 


I am what I like to be. 


L. 


My Universe. 



Of these Monologues, numbers III, 
VI, XIV, XV, XX, XXI, XXIV, 
XXV and XXXII first appeared in 
" The Lark. " 




INTRODUCTION 



WOULD have you think of him as / 
know him^ a youth of twenty years^ 
exiled and alone^ separated from 
the mother, far away, abandoned 
by his native land and Time, a recluse and a 
dreamer^ in love with sadness^ waiting for the time 
to come to do his part in recalling the ancient glory 
of the great poets and philosophers of his land; watch- 
ing^ calm-eyed and serious^ the writers of this nnv 
world^ to see if the old words can live in the 
Western civilization; and if the sheeted memories 
of the Past may be re-embodied in our English 
tongue. 

In the editing of these poems^ I have colaborated 
with Mr. Porter Garnett, whose sympathetic 
assistance has lightened a responsibility^ that only our 
regard for YoNE NoGUCHi might authorize; and 



INTRODUCTION 

\f our hints and explanations of idiom and diction 
have aided him and if our hands^ laid reverently 
upon his writings^ have in some places cleared a few 
ambiguous constructions^ how generously has he repaid 
the debt ! PFe gave him but the crude metal of the 
language and he has returned it to us, minted into 
golden coin. He has honored our native tongue by his 
writings; he has lifted the veil of convention and 
discovered fresh beauties and unexpected charms in 
our speech. And so, when I try to offer some 
fitting introduction to the writings of my friend, his 
words come back to me; his virile phrases a7id un- 
worn metaphors best paint his moods. What need to 
introduce him, indeed? — has he not in these pages 
spoken for himself? 

For here in these Monologues, he has written 
with absolute sincerity and simplicity, his very soufs- 
journal, in nocturnes set to the music of an ufi- 
familiar tongue, in form vague as his vague moods. 
Though ever unknowing of Self, he has given to 
these songs the truest lyric quality^ — in his lonely cab- 
in, even yellow-jackets-abandoned — haunting the 
midnight garden — alone in the dream-muffled can- 
yon; at shadeless noon, sunful-eyed, — in the so- 
ber-faced evening — wrapped in the warm darkness 



INTRODUCTION 

of the invisible night — shrouded in the gray myste- 
ry of the mist — under the brave, upright rains, 
or swept by the boneless winds; — he has revealed 
himself a visitor in this sense-world^ hid in a corner 
of the Universe, delighted in his dreams and rev- 
rieSj with its shadows, ^ts audible silence, and the 
poetic garments of it* clouds^ — disdainful of its 
Names, its childish play and the dusty manners 
of the city^ lonely in Being-formed Nothing, his 
soul beating against the sadness-walled body, seek- 
ing for a casement to flit out. 

So much for the journal and portrait of the man^ 
whose shy soul roams lonelily out, picked by the 
incessant tear-rains, his way lost in misty doubt- 
fulness. So much for the subjective aspect of his 
visions of Nature^ and his life of gentle melancholy- 
But of those dreams within the Dream, of the 
*■ Being '-fruit of his ' Nothing ' orchard, of his 
rivulet's unknown chatter, — how many shall under- 
stand? For his is the voice of the Occident speak- 
ing from the iron-bodied yore-time, where there is 
place without Place, and though he would give 
the Word to the word, not less, not more than 
the Word itself, — these^ to many heedless ears, shall 
be but the unintelligible fro^* rain-songs, — the 



INTRODUCTION 

tear-crles of the crickets on the lean, gray-hair- 
ed hill. And w'th his own whimsical despair^ we 
may say, " O Homeless Snail, for my sake, put 
forth thy honorable horns ! " 

Still it may be that some may read between the 
lines and find the doorless entrance to his philosophy. 
With him, they may gaze through the ripples, into 
the mileless bottom of the mirrory brook, and 
behold his strange shadowed world. Jnd seeing its 
mysteries, they too may wonder whether the bird, 
that flies upright into the atom-eyed sky, — or 
its reflected figure that sinks down into the roomy 
halls beneath the surface, is the real bird. They too 
may stir the waves of reverie, awakening thereby 
some unknown motion in that othei-world, or 
with their eyes dimmed by mist-pains, and fingers 
all bloodied by rose-thorns, y?«^/« his corridor of Poet- 
ry, a refuge from the siorms of vanity-winged Hope. 

Tet it were but partly true to call this symbolism. 
It is too vague^ too subtly suggestive for that. Such 
moods and nuances of feeling as these are not trans., 
latable into the logical and definite processes of Occi- 
dental thought. And though on the other hand, they 
are not distinctively Japanese in sentiment or in 
art, yet one might illustrate their intangible delicacy 



INTRODUCTION 

hy one of the Ho-ku's or " inspirations " of his 
own *' high qualified " Ba-sho, meaningless but 
wisdom-wreathed syllables, — elusive phrases^ — like 
opiate vapors changing to the changing mood. 

'' Alas, lonesome road, 
Deserted by wayfarers. 
This autumn evening ! " 

^nd so, who shall travel along the road where 
YoNE NOGUCHI fares this Autumn evening ? Not 
many pilgrims shall find the Way, but if haply, 
after the curtain of his life is drawn, one or two-, 
after sailing on surgeful waves, shall pass this 
space of land, — a wandering, love-hunting breeze 
shall welcome them — the quail's note shall jump 
into their Sea of Loneliness — and in the ghost- 
raining night, whose shadow-mysteries are divided 
by the beams of h's matchless Mistress Moon, in 
her chamber of unfathomable peace, the rustling 
of his willow leaves may break into the tuneful 
silence — a sigh may knock upon the drowsy airs, 
and a voice may whisper, — " Where is my friend ? " 

Well may he say, *' What about my songs ? " 
Shall there be no shadow, — no echoing to the 
end ? — or must his Word, once uttered, ever 



INTRODUCTION 

roam about the Universe with voiceless sound ! 
Who^ indeedy will care for his poetry ? 

Ah^ the ripples know ! As the monotonous 
rhymed rivulet of Time hurries down, day by 
night, with her undifFerent tone, — the ripples, 
gone down far away, far away, — they know ! 

Gelett Burgess. 
San Francisco, Dec. i st., 1896 




PROLOGUE 

^HE fate-colored leaves float dumbly 
down unto the ground-breast, 
thousands after thousands, matting 
the earth with yellow flakes. 

Whilst the brushing of a golden. Autumn wind 
dreams away into the immortal stillness. 

Ah, they roam down, roam down, roam down ! 

Alone in the dark green shadows of the can- 
yon-forest, I never see a mortal behind nor 
before me. 

Alas for my beloved predecessors passed so far 
away over the myriad seas and the mount- 
ains ! 

Alone in the tranquillity, I see the colored 
thought-leaves of my soul-trees falling 
down, falling down, falling down upon the 
stainless, snowy cheeks of this paper. 

Oh, let them sleep; let them pass, anon, into 
eternal drowsiness. Praise them not, O 
World, — abuse them not, I pray ! 

In search of perennial rest, they fall down, fall 
down, fall down, fall down ! 

Ah, they are the stuff of Eternity itself; my 
death-hurrying, withered thoughts of poetry 
are they ! 



"^i^, lonely,, lonely.. 
Shall this Flower's Neighbors he 
When To-morrow comes ! " 

Ba-sho. 



MONOLOGUES 

OF A 

HOMELESS SNAIL 




I. / COME BACK TO ME. 

[he space of land I passed alon^ 
hides steaiishly away, the dusty 
manners, the dusty souls, the 
dusty bodies, — what the city is. 

Alasj venerable Nothing ! as the nothing lives 
out of mortal view; 

Alas, worthy Death ! as the Death saves the 
sheeted sins. 

Such city, unvisible now in my spiritless eyes, 
might be seen as holy rout in unknown 
land. 

And at last I came back to me, after sailing 
on surgeful waves; at this moment^ be- 
tween the Present and the Future, the Past 
and the Present, — forgetting what the 
world was, yestertime, — forgetting what I 
was, yestertime. 

When the Future shall be the Past, " I come 
back to me, " or " I go on to me, " shall 
be as one. 

What do I mean by me ? I, whom the god 
made at first for me ! 




II WHERE WOVLD I GO ? 

*LiDiNG downward the peace-buried, si- 
lence-toned Somewhere, driven by 
the gray Melody of the monoto- 
nous-rhymed rivulet, — Eternal chant 
of perennial spirits, 

My soul wrapped in warm darkness, I lost drows- 
ily the memory of times. 

Roaming about the harmless sky through the chat- 
tering atoms, accompanied by the White Mu- 
sician — the mountain breeze, more snowy 
than powdered marble — under poetry-string- 
ed harp, 

My weightless soul, round-formed, forgot the fan- 
cies of my shuddering passion. 

But for the remembering, ( nay, for the remem- 
bering even in forgetting ) the mother, — 
where would I go ? 

Ever looking up to the high sky, heart-filled I 
breathe the Western airs under heavy tears. 

My shy soul was consoled then, as if I had drunk 
my mother's sweet breath, love-frozen, out 
of the far West. 




III. THE BRAVE UPRIGHT RAINS. 

HE brave upright rains come right 
down like errands from iron -bodied 
yoretime, never looking back; out of 
the ever tranquil, ocean-breasted, far 
high heaven — yet as high but as the gum 
tree at my cabin window. 
Without hesitation, they kill themselves in an 
instant on the earth, Hfting their single- 
noted chants — O tragedy ! Chants ? Nay, 
the clapping sound of earth-lips. 
O heavenly manna, chilly, delicate as Goddess* 
tears for the intoxicated mouth of the soil, 
this gossamer-veiled day ! 
The Universe now grows sober, gaunt, hungry, 
frozen-hearted, spiteful-souled; alone, friend- 
less, it groans out in the flute of the stony- 
throated frog. 
Resignedly, the floating mountain of tired cloud 
creeps into the willow leaves — washed hair 
of palace-maiden of old. 
Lo, the willow leaves, mirrored in the dust-freed 
waters of the pond ! 




IV. O, MATCHLESS MISTRESS MOON. 

JBOUNDLESS silcnce, like dense magic 

hair ! 
Poetic garments of opiate vapors ! — 
'The mystery-guarding, forever un- 
published, golden-sheeted volumes far down 
in the rivulet, out of Time, out of Place, 
under the frogs' rain-songs — 

O the matchless Mistress Moon in a chamber 
of unfathomable peace ! 

These ripples of water bearing radiant lanterns 
( moons ? ) roam down; — are they not the 
frogs* throatful breaths ? 

Lo, the moon in the sea-blue sky dome ! To 
me, a golden casement to steal through in- 
to the unknown world, tenanted by anoth- 
er god; where it is serene as the dreamy 
mists of Divinity, where it is free as fren- 
zied clouds, where it is pleasant as wan- 
dering, love-hunting breeze. 

This world is not my residence to the end ! 

Alas, the moon has lost her way, harassed a- 
mong the leaf-fellows on the darkling hill 
top! 

Isn't there chance for my flying out? 




V. IS THIS WORLD THE SOLID BEING? 

iNDER the void-frozen vanity-spirited 
heaven mending cloud, this shade- 
less afternoon,-^the world faced 
like a lean philosopher, — 
7 he resigned poet, alone, delights in the corri- 
dor of Poetry; the god watches the keys 
of the entrance, nodding, lonely, in being- 
formed nothing. 
My soul, like a chilly-winged fly, roams about 
the sadness-walled body, hunting for a 
casement to flit out. 
Lo, suddenly, an inspired bird flies upright into 

the atom-eyed sky ! 
Alas, his reflection sinks far down into the 
mileless bottom of the mirrory rivulet ! 
Is this world the solid being ? — or a shadowy 

nothing ? 
Is the form that flies up the real bird, ? Or the 
figure that sinks down I 




VI. SABRE-CORNERED WINDS BLOW. 

s'ABRE-cornered Winds blow ! 
Close up thy mouth; thy thin- 
wreathed lips shiver under the 
Winds ! 
Already-colorfed words are colored more by thy 

gossip of another. 
Thy mouth is like a keyless door for thy my- 
riad misfortunes, in this floating world. 
Bold words be dead ! as often the word is lit- 
tle more than nothing. 
Timid words be dead ! as often the word is 

little less than nothing ! 
Give the word to the Wordj not less, not more 

than the Word itself! 
Silence is the all of Silence: Stillness is the 

whole of Stillness. 
Behold, the Heaven above is ever dumb ! — 
Under its Muteness, the Seasons change 
around; — the thousand trees grow up: 
And lo, the never-broken curtain-canopy of 

heaven arches closely over the earth. 
Alas, in this big cage of the universe, without 
an entrance, thy Word, once uttered, ever 
roams around the world with voiceless 
sound I 




VII. ALONE. 

)lone ! 
Though the heaven above break 
dovi'n; though the earth spreads 
around — apart, alone, not even 

with my own shadow in the world of 

darkness; with only my withered soul, 

housed in the tear-rusted body, 
As a motherless wind in breathless vale, as a 

funeral bell stealing down into the unvisible 

world by a dream-muffled path. 
Alone with my my own loneliness, with my 

own sadness, with my own reverie. 
Alone in this ghost-raining night, my cabin 

walls dying like formless corpses into the 

darkness of vacuity. 
Alone in this boundless universe, closing my 

moital eyes; yet, under the radiant darkness, 

I am ever awake to the sheeted memory 

of the past. 
Alas, my almost decayed soul picked by the in - 

cessant tear-rains, my one desire is to be 

myself as nothing. 




VIII. AH, IT WAS RAIN! 

AM like a broken-hearted waning 
smoke out of tender love's chimney, 
changed in an instant, as a hope- 
decayed cloud; 

Leaning upon the withered willow tree, my shy 
dream, as a homeless wind, hunts formless 
desire with boneless hands. 

I am awakened suddenly by what ? — needle-like 
tears of my friend ?— alas, he may be count- 
ing somewhere his never melting tears. 

Ah, it was rain ! 

Lo, the rivulet near by, curtains over the roomy 
halls far beneath. 

Dead, motherless, lonely, tearful world for me ! 

My willow leaves wither, while my friend is 

gone so far away, and I lose his track mid 
frozen tears. 

Alas, such gloomy clouds above, gray-haired by 
their sadness, storm about with dead-voiced 
sounds. 



IX. rO AN VNKNOWN POET. 

\HEN I am lost in the deep body of 
the mist on the hill, 
The world seems built with me 
as its pillar ! 
Am I the god upon the face of the deep, deep- 
less deepness in the Beginning? 





X. JLAS, NOTHING! 

^LAS, nothing ! 
Wisdom gives the way to untruth- 
fulness: Hope gives the way to 
feeble wisdom. 

What talk, about Goodness, Badness, Success, 
Unsuccess, Virtue, Vice ! 

Like dreams amid dreams, our lives in this 
floating world. 

Storms of vanity-winged hope, be silent ! 

Alone, abroad, I lost at last my way out of 
sight in misty doubtfulness. 

While hunting the doorless entrance of Hope, 
my fingers were all bloodied by rose-thorns ! 

The cold-hearted sun could n't kill my dew-tears 
ever shed under spirited sorriness — ever 
dreaming of the ideal romance. 

Alas, my own frozen dews ! — formed times ago, 
in the mileless West, when the sword- 
handed hopes swept me apart from my 
brother, — far away ! 



XI. DREAMY PEACE DWELT WITH ME. 

'reamy Peace dwelt with me, whose 
magic vapors enclosed me, softly 
as lovers' shadows. 
I ever nod upon the graves of Si- 
lence ! 
I ever loll upon waves of muteness, wrapping 

mists about my breast. 
1 ever roam around the unsettled land of 

Dawn, where the ruins moulder into their 
rest. 





XII. ON THE MIDNIGHT GARDEN. 

Y own shoes' tapping picks into my 
shuddering soul, which, like a wan 
priest in a starry heaven, floats on 
the unfrightening thought-seas, 
In the midnight garden, taking her conscious 
slumber among sheeted mists issumg from 
the door-chink of the back hill. 
Alas, the frogs' songs this night, so significant ! 

Peace, — or War ? 
The leaves die into sleep, the night dews hav- 
ing drunk up stealishly all the fragrances 
of the drowsy flowers. 
My Spring willow-leaves stand with their eyes 
dimmed by mist-pains, like swooning maid- 
ens overdrenched under rains of love. 
Alas, among the willow-leaves, my bushy haired 
love, alone, stands with willow-boned waist, 
graceful as a living cloud, — dressing her 
silveiy star. 



XIII. DRANKESr THOU SNOWT DEIVS.- 

RANKEST thou snowy dews of pleas- 
ure, write right on thy soul the 
taste of sadness. 




Alone without friend, — abroad, I cover my ears 
against the wind's silly question : " JVhat 

are tears ? " 
Am I a visitor in this world ? — or a master of 

this world ? 
Alas, this evening of silence, — frozen darkness. 
No one in my sight but a tired traveling crow, 

havened by our wither-faced gate. 
Ah, my soul roams lonelily out, like a ghostly 

lantern under the rains, consoled even by 

the sound of the desolate funeral bell 

drowned by the rivulet, forgetting its way 

to an unknown other-wojld. 
The icy word alas is made for me alone I 




XIV. SLIDING THROUGH THE WINDOW- 

[liding through the window of sea- 
green Heaven, 
Innocent misty vapors flit into the 
roomy hall of the Universe, 
Exhaling from the formless chimney called 

Spring, out of sight, where the god alone, 
transmutes his poetry of Beauty. 
The opiate vapors, in foamless waves, rock 

about this dreaming shore of April-Earth. 
Alas, the mother-cow with matron eyes, utters 
her bitter heart, kidnaped of her children 
by the curling gossamer mist ! 




XV. WHJT AB O UT MY SONGS ? 

|he known-unknown-bottomed gossa- 
mer waves of the field are colored 
by the traveling shadows of the 
lonely, orphaned meadow lark: 
At shadeless noon, sunful-eyed, — the crazy, one- 
inch butterfly ( dethroned angel ? ) roams 
about, her embodied shadow on the secret- 
chattering grass -tops in the sabre-light. 
The Universe, too, has somewhere its shadow; — 

but what about my songs ? 
An there be no shadow, no echoing to the 

end, — my broken-throated flute will never 
again be made whole 1 




XVI. JT NIGHT. 

|t night the Universe grows lean, 
sober-faced, of intoxication, 
The shadow of the half-sphere cur- 
tains down closely against my 
world, like a doorless cage, and the stillness 
chained by wrinkled darkness strains 
throughout the Universe to be free. 
Listen, frogs in the pond, (the world is a pond 
itself) cry out for the light, for the truth ! 
The curtains rattle ghostlily along, bloodily bit- 
ing my soul, the winds knocking on my 
cabin door with their shadowy hands. 




XVII. / RECALL MY DREAM, 

RECALL my dream, passed far away 
into unvisible Somewhere, out of 
Time. 
Ah, I have drunk and known the 
taste of water this very day ! 
Birds ( moving pleasure ) sing; flowers ( satisfied 
silence) dress themselves; winds (sublime 
frenzy) roam. 
I found out, at last, my dream of last night, 

ever surgeful, ever excited. 
Alas, I was ever heaping stones upon a baseless 

land! 
But when will the curtain of my life be drawn 
down against this world (the world itself 
is ever dreaming) where I dreamed my 
dream ? 
The time should be in my hand to know. 
******** 

And the rivulet hurries down, day by night, 
with her undifFerent tone ! 




XVIII. AH, MY BJNJNui TREE ! 

|uT from gossamer hall ? Out from 
cloud-like temple ? Out from mist- 
muffled corridor ? Out from phan- 
tom-dreamed canyon ? Out from 
romance-dead field ? Out from heaven- 
melting ocean ? — the age forgotten, naked 
winds roam crazily after sadness-poetry, 
singing their own gray songs around the 
world of tears. 
Locking my cabin door, my humble body alone 
with the friendless soul ( my master in this 
world ) I cover my ears against their 
bloody voices. 
Alas, their broken forms stand at my entrance ! 
Who knows ! — my one-leafed banana tree may 
be broken, laying his corpse on the bed of 
icy earth. 
Ah, my banana tree ! who gallantly stared 
down this chilly-blooded world, with his 
one soul alone, wrapping the ghost-tenanted 
darkness about his soft-boned breast. 




XIX. LIKE A PAPER LANTERN. 

H, my friend^ thou wilt not come back 
to me this night!" 
I am alone in this lonely cabin, 
alas, in the friendless Universe, 
and the snail at my door hides stealishly 
his horns. 
" O for my sake^ put forth thy honorable horns ! " 
To the Eastward, to the Westward ? Alas, 
v/here is Truthfulness ? — Goodness ? — 
Light ? 
The world enveils me; my body itself this 

night enveils my soul. 
Alas, my soul is like a paper lantern, its pastes 
wetted off under the rainy night, in the 
rainy world. 




XX. WHERE IS THE PGETF 

|he inky-garmented, truth-dead 
Cloud — woven by dumb ghost 
alone in the darkness of phantas- 
mal mountain-mouth — kidnaped 
the maiden Moon, silence-faced, love-man- 
nered, mirroring her golden breast in silveiy 
rivulets: 
The Wind, her lover, gray-haired in one mo- 
ment, crazes around the Universe, hunting 
for her dewy love-letters, strewn secretly 
upon the oat-carpets of the open field. 
O drama ! never performed, never gossiped, 

never rhymed ! Behold — to the blind beast, 
ever tearless, iron-hearted, the Heaven has 
no mouth to interpret these tidings ' 
Ah, where is the man who lives out of himself? 
— the poet inspired often to chronicle these 
things ? 




XXI. THE INVISIBLE NIGHT, 

|he flat-boarded earth, nailed down at 
night, rusting under the darkness: 
The Universe grows smaller, pal- 
pitating against its destiny: 
Aly chilly soul — center of the world — gives 
seat to audible tears — the songs of the 
cricket. 
1 drink the darkness of a corner of the Uni- 
verse, — alas ! square, immovable world to 
me, on my bed ! Suggesting what .? — god or 
demon ? — far down, under my body. 
I am as a lost wind among the countless atoms 

of high Heaven ! 
Would the invisible Night might shake off her 
radiant light, answering the knocking of 
my soft -formed voice ! 




XXII. Mr POETRT, 

\y Poetry begins with the tireless 
songs of the cricket, on the lean 
gray haired hill, in sober-faced 
evening. 

And the next page is Stillness 

And what then, about the next to that ? 
Alas, the god puts his universe-covering hand 

over its sheets ! 
" Master^ take off your hand for the humble ser- 
vant ! " 
Asked in vain : — 
How long for my meditatioaf 




XXIII. DESTINT ARRIVES. 

.TANDING by the gray-boned, naked- 
spirited wind, dark green through 
evening veil, the thousand leaves 
tremble in chilly palpitation. 
Fading lips of love-dead rose sing of passed 
damsels' sadness ( or pleasure ? ) colored, 
juicy cheeks. 
Song-forgotten, homeless meadow lark, searching 
in vain the gossamer waves of the harmless 
field;— 
Listen ! an axe — the ghostly sound of nailing 
on the tear-frozen earth ! — the chopping of 
wood far away, — ah, this evening ! 
Alas, Destiny arriving must soon be here 
against me 1 



XXIV. THE GARDEN OF TRUTH. 




A Hi 



The 



Lo! 



NTiMELY frosts Wreathe over the 
garden — the staid bottom were air 
the sea. 
Alas ! from her honeyed rim, frosts 
steal down like love-messengers from the 
Lady Moon. 

rht-walled corridor in Truth's palace; a 
humanity-guarded chapel of God, where 
brave divinities kneel, small as mice, 
against the shoreless heavens, — the midnight 
garden, where my naked soul roams alone, 
under the guidance of Silence. 
God-beloved man welcomes, respecfts as an 
honored guest, his own soul and body, in 
his solitude. 

the roses under the night dress themselves 
in silence, and expedi no mortal applaud, — 
content with that of their voiceless God. 




XXV. ALONE IN THE CJNTON. 

|he audible flakes of the snowy cold- 
ness, stirred by the silence-breaker 
of night, the hoary-browed wind, 
wander down, wander down the 

sleeping boughs unto my canyon bed. 
" Good-bye my beloved family ! " — I am to-night 

buried under the sheeted coldness : 
The dark weights ot loneliness make me im- 
movable ! 
Hark ! the pine-wind blows, — blows ! 
Lo, the feeble, obedient leaves flee down to the 

ground fearing the stern-lipped wind voices ! 
Alas, the crickets' flutes, to-night, are broken ! 
The homeless snail climbing up the pillow, 

stares upon the silvered star-tears on my 

eyes ! 
The fish-like night-fogs flowering with mystery 

on the bare-limbed branches : — 
The stars above put their love-beamed fires out, 

one by one — 
Oh, I am alone ! Who knows my to-night's 

feeling ! 




XXVI. SEJS OF REVERIE. 

>ossAMER-surging, pleasure-foamed, 
dream-bodied seas of reverie, odor- 
ed with passion, waving in time 
without time, place without place 
iViy soul, heavy-weighted with the dusts of life 
still, alas ! lingering in the rusty, broken 
body, sinks downward to the bottomless 
bottom of Reverie's sea, to the destiny of 
to-morrow, unknown at this moment. 
I hear but the words: — " The time is at 

hand ! " — '' Jnd behold it was very good ! " 
Welcome, snowy clouds, far away ( frozen 

breath of angels ? ) revelling in the poetry 
of their myriad changings. 
I am stirring the waves of Reverie with my 
meaningless, but wisdom-wreathed syllables, 
woven by selfless pen, and destroying these 
sheets, time after time, in my mystery en- 
veloped desire — ( is not desire but un- 
known adlion ? ) 
Alone, dreaming as in floating poetry; my 

form alone in the cabin ( even yellow-jack- 
ets abandoned ) under the morbid-faced 
summer sky. 




XXVII. / DELIGHT IN THE SHADOW, 

DELIGHT in the shadow ! 
The shadow seems to me as radiant 
Virtue, as honeyed Goodness, — 
as mirrory Truth, — as royal ser- 
vant, — as staid Stillness, — as restful 
Meditation, — as watery Wisdom. 

In the shadow of my own body, my Soul, eter- 
nal upon the deathless Earth, humble in 
the face of Destiny, — a claimless visitor, 
or settled master, leans upon the central 
pillar of body. 

Ever unknowing of Will, of Self, — like an opi- 
ate vapor softly issuing from the golden 
rim of the moon, in the gossamer-frozen 
sky, — unknowing of positiveness, like the 
Spring breeze roaming among snowy-waist- 
ed maiden flowers. 

Alone, abandoned by my native land and Time, 
living without lips or passion. 

My Soul, silent as some dead face, contented as 
some idol god, seeks the hidden sheeted 
poetry of the Universe everwhile; and so 
shall seek, perhaps after my death in this 
visible world. 




XXVIII TBE BOUGH^WIND BLOWS! 

\h, blows ! blows ! the bough -wind 

blows ! 
Do n't sweep away my body and 
soul yet, please ! I still love the 
world, whilst my dear mother lives. 
Hark, the bough-wind blows, blows, blows, — 
dashing the dusts off into the bottomless 
Eternity ! 
Lo, the thousand gum-trees, waving to and fro, 

renovate the color of the hanging dome. 
Autumn painting the rushing California billow- 
hills to a restful yellow. 
Ah, blows, blows, the bough-wind blows to 
awake forth the spirits from the vanity 
dream ! 




XXIX. JM I LONESOME? 

Y body and soul melt into the can- 
yon solitude, which itself dreams 
away into the silence-moistened 
space of darkness-veiled earth. 
Am I lonesome ? — No, not I; but our night 
half-sphere seems sad, stirred in her stag- 
nant reverie by the velvety-beamed breezes. 
Let me now make the fire under the tree, and 

color the darkness for a little while ! 
Hark! what are these voices? — Are they of 
the winds tapping on my back with their 
phantom hands ? 
Alas, drowning in the airs of doubtfulness, I 

am surrounded by pale ghosts ! — 
Let me in these moments be blind, deaf and 

dumb in the darkness ! 
I am listening to Time's footsteps that come 
nearer, while the lofty moon gives me a 
silvern road, separating the shadow-mystery. 




XXX. MY LONELY SOUL. 

N the tomb-mute, memory-surging 
night-garden, my tear-moistened, 
trembling soul creeps about, hunt- 
ing in vain my love's tiny curve- 
lined foot-tracks, lost times ago. 
The odorous, phantasmal breezes ( sighs of a 
frozen corpse in the earth ? ) blow up to 
scatter down over the garden the icy sad- 
ness, that waves about the lean, faded 
moon, hung on a withered twig. 
Drowned in the music of the unexplorable rivu- 
let's sea-song; wet under the endless rain- 
tears of the crickets' cries; beaten by the 
beauty-decayed sabre-shadow of tree, 
Alas, my soul hides, closing its e)es, — hides 

in the mobile body-cabin, praying the dark- 
ness to be a sympathetic friend ! 
The world-scolding night-bells of the church 
hasten down into another roomy world. 
Alas, what about my soul's future ? 




XXXI. INTO THE PLACE. 

|EVER delight in these tender-spirited, 
long shadows of light-flowering 
summer leaves, — lying in time 
without time, place without place 
on the bed, my pillow resting on the sea- 
blue mountain-side, formed like a damsel's 
waist, far away. 
My vapory dream glides down with the green 
breeze into the mystic land of being- 
fruited * Nothing '-orchard, along the silence 
foamed, sober shadows of the leaves: 
Alas, into the place where the two roads meet, 
to God Garden — to Demon Court ! 




XXXII. SEAS OF LONELINESS. 

kNDERNEATH the void-colored shade 
of the trees, my 'self passed as 
a drowsy cloud into Somewhere. 
I see my soul floating upon the 
face of the deep, nay the faceless face of 
the deepless deep — 

Ah, the Seas of Loneliness ! 

The mute-waving, silence- waters, ever shoreless, 
bottomless, heavenless, colorless, have no 
shadow of my passing soul. 

Alas, I, without wisdom, without foolishness, 
without goodness, without badness, — am 
like god, a negative god, at least ! 

Is that a quail ? One voice out of the back-hill 
jumped into the ocean of loneliness. 

Alas, what sound resounds; what color returns; 
the bottom, the heaven, too, reappears ! 

There is no place of muteness ! Yea, my para- 
dise is lost in this moment ! 

I want not pleasure, sadness, love, hatred, suc- 
cess, unsuccess, beauty, ugliness — only the 
mighty Nothing in No More. 




XXXIII. CHANGES AFTER CHANGING. 

|he world cries out with childish 

tears : 
jThe world smiles on the silly girl- 
ish cheeks: 
The god forgets unbravely the death. 
The universe changes after changing in count- 
less times, from being to being, ever timor- 
ous, to dip the waters of perfect truth. 
The sun sinks far down in the West, as a 

glorious king, leaving the never-decayed ro- 
mance ! — Oh, thou wilt not be up again ! 
I want no silvery moon ! 
Death be eternal death evermore ! 
Alas, this ignoble changing world, the shame- 
forgotten god, — the hateful world of chang- 
ing! 




XXXIV. CHILDISH PLAT. 

Intoxication in delusion, dreaming 
in intoxication, running, forgetting, 
absent-minded, sadness after pleas- 
ure, loss after gain, angry-faced by 
unsuccess, — our lives are just like childish 
play. 
Throw thy gold out into the trail-less mount- 
ains ! Sink thy treasures down in the bot- 
tomless sea ! 
Thy fame is nothing; people's gossip, too, is 

nothing. 
Applause gives way soon to depreciation. The 
applauder passes away, the depredator also 
passes away, and the listener follows thenv 
Before whom art thou ashamed ? By whom 
wouldst thou be remembered I 




XXXV. THE RIPPLES KNOfT! 

HiVER-giving, lofty sounding horse's 
hoofs, knocking on the warm 
earth, ( the mouldered history of 
old ) call to awake: — the horse's 
waving mane, like heart-broken willow 
leaves under wanton mists, is combed by 
the steel-toothed, salty winds. 

The young, romance-dreaming knight, straight- 
bodied, singing the lust-despising war-song, 
rushes along the road of chastening advent- 
ure, his stainless scabbard inviting the 
moon to follow, until finding a tired, coat 
less tree, its past tragedy chanted in a 
chorus of sadness by the snipe-group, far 
away. 

He leaves his horse and bending down to the 
water of the rivulet near by, that refledls 
his hope-dead face, he asks: 

" Has no Romance been kept for me here f* " and 
comes the merciless answer, " The ripples^ 
gone down far away^ far away^ they know ! 

] hear his thousand sighs as he turns his horse's 
head to the home road, and I see the 
green face of the rivulet which, with chilly 
smiles, hurries down with unknown chatter. 




XXXVI. HUSH,— WHOSE SOBSf 

JHE bare tomb stands in the wind. 
The veil-less moon shivers, breath- 
ing her yellow sighs among the 
naked twigs. 
The broken banana leaves chant in silence, 

*■'■ JVe are content with sadness ! " 
The immovable hillside cabin is dumb, en- 
wrapped by the thousand Autumn voices. 
Hush ! a maiden's sobs ! — Are they the ripple- 
tears of the friendless brook, breaking the 
stillness ? 
*' Oh, my love ! my love, I am here ! " I mur- 
mur, but I hear no reply in the darkness. 




XXXVII. I AM A SHADOW, 

'tanding like a ghost in the smiling 

mysteries of the moon garden, 
I*' Whose is this shadow^ is it mine f 
this shadow like an ashy^ leafless 
twig^ " I said. 

" Pardon^ comrade^ — away ! " And my knocking 
voice broke the birds' slumber. 

'• Away ! " I said again, " Away from me O 
shadow ! " 

I stepped aside wishing to be free from the 
shadow, wishing to be alone on the ever- 
listening night-earth. " Oh^ how long wouldst 
thou follow me ?" 

Alas, death ! — alas, death ! O giant tree in 
whose shadow my body-shadow and soul- 
shadow lose themselves! 

Resting now under the redwood tree, that 

droops its boughs to stir the dreamy Earth, 
I saw my own shadow was gone. 

Leaving me to the silent monologue, ^^ I am a 
shadow^ I am a shadow^ but nothing else^ my 
friend r' 




XXXVIII. HOIV NEAR TO FAIRYLAND! 

JHiTE hinded and yellovz-veiled, the 
angel rocks in autumn drowsiness. 
Listen, the dream frozen drops of 
the rivulet-manna melt into the 
tuneful silence ! 
The Springlike warmth stealing into my body, 
drying up the wet mysteries of my soul, 
gives me flight into the freedom of va- 
cuity, into roofless un floored reverie-hall. 
Lo, such greenness, such velvety greenness, such 

heaven without heaven above ! 
Lo, again, such gray, such velvety gray, such 

earth without earth below ! — 
My soul sails through the waveless, timeless 

mirror seas. 
Oh, how near it seems to Fairyland ! 
Blow, blow a gust of wind ' Sweep away my 
soul-boat ao-ainst that shore ! 




XXXIX. AH^ WHO SAYS SO ? 

|ET by the tapping sounds of rain on 
the roof, 
My soul finding not a melodious 
silence — a warm reverie, stirs 
the darkness of my chamber to flight, 
while I lie on the midnight, lonely bed. 
Alas ! The rains nail on the roof; nay, on the 
darkness of the night; nay, on the silence 
of the Universe ! 
Being even as a lost child in the night, I hear 
no following tears of my heart-broken 
mother — only the rains, dripping down 
from the redwood boughs. What prattle! 
Is it the chatter of some unseen mortal ? 
Alas ! Ought a man to be one who ever 



weeps 



Ah, who says so ? 




XL. WHAT SAYS THE SILENCE? 

■EE, the silvered leaves of the canyon 
moon-beams shiver, falling down, 
falling dow^n through the redwood 
bough^silence ! 

Alas, the hundred thousand myriad leaves are 
scattered here and there ! Shall I myself 
gather all of them ? 

*' Who art thou ? a miser of Nature ? " Fright- 
ened, I look behind upon the stupid moon- 
stillness of the dumb sea-heaven. 

Listening to my audible emotion, I find my 

own body rusting with the antique, odorous 
loneliness of the night Universe. 

'* Where is my friend? " I knocked on the 

drowsy airs with my sigh. I hear an echo, 
far away, — is that the answer ? 

Hush ! stillness again: and I lie down by the 
rivulet's " willy-nilly " chatter. 

Buried to-night under the moon- leaves, I try in 
my blindness to read the heart of Nature, 
forgetting all of myself but the tranquillity. 

" Ah^ what says the Silence unto me ? " 




XLI. THE DESERT OF <■ NO MORE.' 

iNTiL Nothing muffles over the Uni- 
verse of No More, my soul lives 
with the god, darkness and si- 
lence. 
Ah, great Nothing ! 
Ah, the all-powerful Desert of No More ! — 

where myriads of beings sleep in their eter- 
nal death; where the god dies, my soul 
dies, darkness dies, silence dies; where 
nothing lives, but the Nothing that lives 
to the End. 
Listen to the cough of Nature I 
After the cough, the Universe is silent again, 
my soul kissing the ever nameless idol 
faces of the Universe, as in a holy, heath- 
en temple. 




XLII. A NIGHT IN JUNE. 

|he sad, tears- wrapping cricket-songs 
moisten, as if by rain at evening, 
the western fire-skirt — the dying 
glories of the Sun. 
At night, the sleeper-scorning cricket speaks, 
overflowing the shy, breathless garden, 
smiting my soul. 
A heavy-colored darkness swallows up the 
blushing-cheeked, shuddering roses. 

I hear but the soundless voices; " the Sun should 
be displaying his to-morrow^ s splendors. " 

Alas, the Universe has no death, but only 
changing. 

At the approach of dawn, the broken-throated, 
shame-pronouncing cricket-flutes stop their 
syllables against the mirrory-breasted rising 
Sun. 

Yea, the things unvisible or visible change ever 
to the end I 




XLIII. ETERNAL DEATH. 

\\ soul floats with furled desires to 
the place wheresoe'er I will, with 
printless steps, drowsily, musical- 
ly, opening its eye-lashes, veiling 
its cheek-smiles like a thief, — 
Like wanton winds, wing-disturbed, like a 
bushy-haired cloud with long and dusty 
beard. 
The eternal death is a triumph to me; my 
beamless soul, like a twilight-mist, floats 
upon unchanging, uncolored, tasteless, 
soundless, serene seas of roofless, floorless 
darkness. 
There I hoe the poetry- planted garden of si- 
lence; there I plow the pearl-fruited or- 
chard of meditation. 
I sing the song of my heart strings, alone in 
the eternal muteness, in the face of God. 




XLIV. DIFFERENCES, 

ijHE beginning, the end — the birth, 
the death-:.— the darkness, the 
hght, — the voice, the silence, — 
the prosperity, the decay, — the 
love, the envy, — the pleasure, the suffering, 
•>. — the avi^akening, the sleeping, — these dif- 
ferences, coming in unconscious mood, are 
what I ever welcome. 
My soul-casement being opened full widely for 
the jealous god, who lives proudly under 
the same roof with the true god. 
The juiceless flower-cheeks and the withered- 
green tree-hairs invite ever my soul, in this 
dusty world, to count the drops of smile- 
frozen te^rs and tearrfrozen smiles. 




XLV. THE SHADOW OF THE TREES. 

In this moment the flute-silent birds 
forget their fancies and fly up the 
high heaven, chroniclers to the 
shy goddess, leaving to me the 
whole of the dumb Universe, muffled in a 
gossamer reverie. 
The noon-cloud, that disturbs the heart of the 
sadness-welcoming mortal, passes far away 
into an unknown shadow — ah, what is 
the fate of that cloud ? — wishing to leave 
me contented, alone in the solitude. 
Separated from the world-trouble, I rest under 
the shadow of the trees, until my soul-lake 
dustless, radiant-rippled, seems like a silvery 
mirror for a serene beauty; 
And I look up the doom-visible vault of heav- 
en, moulding my face into the unfathom- 
able poetry of the sea-blue sky. 




XLVI. HIDING IN THE MIST. 

\n rustic loneliness, the hill-side 
cabin stands enwrapped by the 
gray mystery — the dream-mists. 
Alas, my cabin-boat, without oars 
on the nightmare billow-mists, knows no 
shore whereon to anchor; floating on, she 
longs for the kindness of a blast of wind ! 

Alas, such abandoned cabin on the earth ! 

Ahs, such friendless soul of me ! 

How long should I be hiding in the silence ? 

" Listen ! What says my little bough-dew ? " 

I open the door of my cabin, and the silver- 
breasted rivulet-maiden, crawling into the 
mist, cries out her tears. 

'* Jh^ what says she^ my little dew on the roof? " 

Alone in the cabin, — in the mystery, — in the 
the silence, I have not known for a long 
time a mother's message. 

** Jh what says she^ my little dew on the 
window ? " 

Alas, who can say the heaven-pillars are not 
broken off this day ? Who can say the 
earth-floor has not fallen down ? 




XLVII. THE NIGHT-lrRE ECHOES. 

Jesting on my pillow, the strings of 
the night-lyre echo in my ears, 
the storm reveling in the wall- 
less chamber of heaven, under the 

dim lanterns of the stars. 
Alas, the lantern-fires, burning up my forgotten 

love-sheets, bid the mist-wreathed phantoms 

laugh me to scorn. 
Enclosed by stillness, ghosts live there alone. 

What welcome fate, then, for me ! 
Even my friend the broken-hearted banana 

tree at my cabin door sleeps like a 

strange idol. 
*' O storm^ for my sake^ make my friend chant his 

sadness again., again ! " 
O smileless silence of midnight ! — Now the 

barking of a dog, far away, ripples lonelily 

along the waves of tears. 
The untimely chatter of a flying meadow lark 

drops away into the unknown West. 
Ah, what about my own sweet love ! 




XLVIII. THE SUMMER'S LEAN FACE. 

RippLE-creamed, high-born moon- 
sickle, like some angel's proud 
eye-brow, clipped off by a rushing 
sabre-blast ! 

O dead ghost's garments of darkness, — the 
tangled-haired sheets of cloud ! 

The fluting of the crickets' shuddering tear- 
songs wave over the garden. 

Fearing one shiver might break their frail 

flutes, my lonely, boatless soul, still as a 
frozen stone, drowns in the bottom of the 
sea of air. 

The drowsy breeze, out of the western, dying 
fire, drifting along the trail between the 
earth-bones, knocking the leafy door 
with gloved hands, finds a resting place in 
the acacia trees. 

How fair the lean face of summer-evening- 
earth; but alas, what suffocating scene, as 
of some sick-chamber ! 




XLIX. / JM WHAT I LIKE TO BE, 

JRT thou plundered^ my half-a-day ? " 
I have lost just half a day ! 
I closed up my mouth; the time 
had no power to control over me, 
separated from the whole world. 

I knelt down as a humble servant before my 
soul, — forgetting my life, my fancy, my 
knowledge, my wisdom, my thought. 

Alone in my cabin, I closed down the casement 
of my eyes,—- I walled up the entrance of 
my ears, and the odors of the world visited 
in vain my nostrils. 

Sadness, gladness, question, answer, coming 
breath, departing breath, this day left my 
soul ! 

I am what I like to be; Spring, Autumn, 

poverty, friends, the world and myself all 
are dead to me ! 

But for civility, my door would never be open- 
ed to the floating world ! 




L. Mr UNIFERSE. 

Ve roam out,— 
Selfless, will-less, virtueless, vice- 
less, passionless, thoughtless, as 
drunken in Dreamland of Dawn, 
or of Nothing, into visible darkness — this 
world that seems like Being. 

We go back again, — 

Contentless; despairless, — a thing but of Noth- 
ing: 

Into this unvisible world, or visible, nothing- 
formed world, as storm-winged winds die 
stealishly away, in the open spiritless face 
of the field. 

What about Goodness ? 

Like the winds above, formless-formed, driving 
mystery-iced clouds into a mountain-mouth. 

W hat about Wisdom ? 

Like winds, matron-faced, scattering flower 
seeds around an unexpe£ling land. 

The world is round; no-headed, no-footed, hav- 
ing no left side, no right side ! 

And to say Goodness is to say Badness: 

And to say Badness is to say Goodness. 



L. Mr UNIVERSE. 

The world is so filled with names; often the 
necessity is forgotten, often the difference 
is unnamed ! 
The Name is nothing ! 
East is West, 
West is East: 
South is North, 
North is South: 

The greatest robber seems like saint: 
The cunning man seems like nothing-wanted 

beast ! 
Who is the real man in the face of God ? 
One who has fame not known, 
One who has Wisdom not applauded, 
One who has Goodness not respected: 
One who has n't loved Wisdom dearly, 
One who has n't hated Foolishness strongly ! 
The good man stands in the world like an un- 
known god in Somewhere; where Good- 
ness, Badness, Wisdom, Foolishness meet 
face to face at the divisionless border be- 
tween them. 



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